The speaker begins with a small confession: the open road itself would be fine. What spoils travel is everything built around it. The poem calls it a "labored labyrinth" and an "intestinal clench," so the anxiety is felt in the body as much as the mind.
The long middle passage is the heart of it. Visas, tickets, screenings, bad restrooms, turbulence, and sleeplessness pour out with no punctuation, so the reader is made to feel the pile-up and the breathlessness. Worries shift from petty (legroom) to serious (no-fly lists, proving who you are). The speaker also slips into "we" and "us," which suggests a shared, ordinary dread rather than a private quirk.
The tone is tense and weary, with a little dark humor in "confiscate our umbilical cords." The repeated "wait wait wait wait" drags the pace. The last line, "wherever we are bound," lands flatly: the stress follows us no matter the destination.